


I stand on the holy mountain and pray for the war

by Greykite



Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: Becoming a Daemon Prince, Gen, Mysticism, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, apotheosis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:42:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23463406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greykite/pseuds/Greykite
Summary: For each of the semi-divine sons of Anathema and the Pantheon comes the hour of  ascension.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	I stand on the holy mountain and pray for the war

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Я стою на священной вершине и молюсь о войне](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22952557) by [Greykite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greykite/pseuds/Greykite), [WTF_Warhammer_Legions_2020](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WTF_Warhammer_Legions_2020/pseuds/WTF_Warhammer_Legions_2020). 



> Written with events of the book "Slaves to darkness" (by John French) in mind. The Siege continues, and this piece may soon become un-canon-compliant, but I want to write something like that long ago.

_«He saw this warrior crowned in psychic fire, screaming up at a burning sky».  
— **Prince of Crows, ADB.** _

...On the shore of his exile he stood, looking at the nonexistent horizon.

The echoes of the great rebellion were fading in the ethereal haze.

Of the heresy, the _Horus_ Heresy, now and forever.

The bitterness melted the wet sand at his feet like the acid.

He was given the mission. To awaken humanity, to awaken the world. Guide people along the exalted path.

And what has become of it now? ...

"I did not betray anyone, for you cannot betray the truth."

A hand dripping with sunset-gold - naked without a book or crozius in it - stretched out toward the sky: as if in attempt to squeeze something in a handful. Then it fell.

"I didn't commit any sin. I have lusted, for lust is holy. I looked for omens, and they turned into the serpents of Ouroboros. I followed the path of contempt and hatred, for it leads to awakening from illusions."

Dark gold — there is no place for blue in these skies, no place for this reminder of the rival brother (no longer hated, but hating instead) - glittered indifferently on waters that had no color of their own.

"I have stumbled while deceiving my own flesh, and the holy blood has turned against me. All this is true."

The world-out-of-the-world floated in slumber; lights flickered in the haze, faded, bloomed again — each with the echo of a distant, desperate cry calling to the gods.

(An echo of his own demanding cry, long ago; of a plea caught up in the winds of eternal strife).

"But mine was the burden; why is the cup had spilled in the sand?"

The fingernails digged into the flesh of the palm. The black blood drip down, and was indifferently absorbed into the earth (into the ether, into nothing).

"I have given up my illusions, I have dried my tears. I did not obey others' will and I did not allow fear to constrain me. I was prepared to make an offering not for sake of myself. And where is the knife that fell from my hands?.."

*** ...He turns away. Looks into the distance.

The wind rolls the dunes of golden sand: similar — and unlike — to the sands of his homeworld.

The gray ash falls on top of the sand, covering it in a thin layer — his homeworld is no more, as if it had never existed at all.

Compliance is sacred to the mind of the herds. False gold instead of true one; silence instead of the Word. Henceforth, as from now on.

He takes another step, his mouth twitching involuntarily, but his sandaled foot freezes for a fraction of a second — invisible to the mortal eye, if there were anyone to look at it — before touching the ground.

He can hear... something.

Ones of his kind cannot feel fear, but the ghost of it turns the dark blood in his veins to ice.

It is like a slow, incessant tread - like an echo of it: from all sides.

It is like the murmur of water: life-giving to a dry tongue, but promising a gentle death to a prisoner locked in a stone cage.

It is like an invisible foil that stretched over the skin, closing the pores, turning the body's heat inward.

It's like a call, like a voice of mother whom they had never known — the children of one and only Father. A call that is answered by something in the very depths of his being: inside the cells, and deeper than them, deeper even than the etheric fibers in the plexus of which the soul beats — where the center of this plexus is.

Center; the egg; the germ. The essence-within-essence.

And this...

 _"This... it shouldn't have been like that."_ A single thought passes through his mind, raised like a weapon that blocks the sudden attack.

"What was it supposed to be like, then?" the wind breathes in his ear.

His mouth felt as if it had been filled with sand, as it had been long ago, on Colchis, during the exile. Grains of sand scratch his eyes, scratch his face.

A sandstorm, he had been taught as a child, could strip the skin and flesh from the bones, leaving a bare skeleton for the scavenger birds to consume.

"You're the last one left. What must be done, must be done."

(...The mad Conrad allowed himself to be killed before other forces could come for him.

Maybe he really saw it.

Perhaps he even saw Lorgar's fate, not only his own.

That was why Conrad had grinned at him the last time they had met: didn't the naive priest-brother, who had come to thank for his rescue, understand - that the Night Haunter, looking into the future, had done such a thing only to doom them both, later, to worse torment?..)

"You thought you could stop the moment?" surf laughs.

"Beloved son," echo sighs.

Fiery arms — tentacles, wings — reach out to him, embrace, glide. Feathers, fur and scales touch his skin as if there were no armor or priestly vestments on him.

"I didn't... perform the sacrifice — " he manages to say through cracked lips. He knows the rules; it is determined, he has become a witness of it.

(Of all the sacrifices — any, but not this one).

"Is it?" Laughter is merry and enticing at the same time. "Look."

Lorgar only lowers his eyelids once — the radiance that spreads around him, washing him mercilessly, is too strong even for the Primarch's eyes: stronger than a nuclear flash that burns to the bone — but when he opens them after half a beat of his improved hearts, he sees before him a completely different image.

This is a mountain peak — and this is a temple, a Colchisian temple with steps and a flat top close to the holy stars. He recognizes the outline of the altar — recognizes the cup on it and the reddened knife.

He takes a step forward without realizing it — it is so ingrained in him, so natural and simple.

His fingers tighten on the knife handle. The other hand flies up into the air — and the fire rises to the sky with his movement, so that it is not even clear whether it was caused by his psychic power, or whether he just shielded himself from the sudden heat.

The knife is slick with blood from nowhere. The color of the blade is almost hidden beneath its layer, but he knows that this blade is as black as the moonless night, the sacred night of human sacrifice.

The smoke of burning rises steadily and thickly into the sky — a good sign, a good omen.

"You lit a flame on this altar."

The cup sways before his eyes, like a rotating dome of the sky — and the blood in it sways too, thick and dark. Almost black.

"And it will burn for ten thousand years."

He looks around for the source of the voice, the knife still clenched in his hand.

The road of processions leads to the temple - from the very horizon, wide and sparkling almost menacingly, the reflection of the celestial lightnings. The road of glory is the road of violence, deceit and blood, since it is from these things the glory is born: that which exists in its own name.

So it is written. So say the texts from the most ancient times, if you know how to read the truth. Read _in_ truth.

"You are a priest and have known the essence of all religions that call to a common source."

There is no triumph in the voice he hears inside of his head — more and more like a reflection, an echo of his own.

"You have known, but you thought that the gods would be satisfied, and the peace would reign again as it should, would reign under your hand, on the blood of the King, in in the wake of a duel of doubles that you would watch as a mystery play."

In the sacrificial flame, transparent, deceptive, two bodies with laurel crowns burn without burning - or none. Or even three, and one of them is winged.

The knife trembles in his fingers, wanting to be used — but the blow is already done.

"It does not please the gods to lose themselves in the final sacrifice, o High Priest. May this be your final revelation."

The knife flies up to his own face, drawing a line along his forehead. Blood flows over the eyes, turning the gold into a more appropriate shade.

"The one war was lost so that the other could last forever."

Every stone in the road of processions is like the key of an instrument, and responds to the note of a song: a symphony of pain, destruction and suffering.

"And you will forever bless more and more new warriors who march on the road of death and glory. For here is your sacrifice, sacrifice-in-your-own-name: those who paved this road with themselves."

The path of glory is eternal, as soon as you step on it, just as endless are the voices that go back to the same symphony, intertwined in a single hymn, monstrous in its incomprehensibility.

"Make up your mind, priest."

"No," he whispers. Although this answer is - obviously - wrong. "No."

And he remembers, for some reason, the face of one of his brothers - the one who was like the false feathered angels; who had shunned him from their very first meeting: thus the sacrificial victim, anticipating the slaughter, shuns the priest.

This one brother, once crowned. Another _false Emperor_.

The face of the dead man who stood in the way of the Anointed One (the cursed, blessed Horus) is full of sympathy.

And with the last thought of his mortal existence, Lorgar hates: he hates more fiercely than ever.

Hatred embraces him — like a sister that the Primarchs never had, pressing in him, melting into his blood.

The pain descends with a heavy hand — almost a father's: without pity, for none of his fathers ever had it.

The flames soar higher and higher, caressing and burning.

The new essence breaks through the skin, flashes gold cuneiform signs, now becoming sharper than the sworn knives of obsidian.

He knows that it is pointless to resist.

And yet he screams, raising his head to the sky the color of madness and hatred. He screams, tearing his own skin with his fingernails, leaving bloody writing on top of gold - writing that no one can read anymore.

He screams forever.

A swirl of sacrificial smoke curls like a funnel over his head.

The skin slides off it like withered paper, half-rotted parchment.

Those old words (both false and bearing the truth) are erased and burned: meaningless, merciless in their consolation.

There could be no triumph of truth. Never.

The truth is here.

In this, and only in this.

In the brother who rose up on the brother. In violence, sacred and sanctified.

Lust is the father of everything, and war is the mother of everything.

The final sacrifice banishes the gods; they retreat, becoming whispers and echoes in the smoke. The final sacrifice protects from their sacred presence: even if offered in their name and on their behalf, not in contempt of their very being.

The final sacrifice - nevertheless - is Anathema.

...and cursed may be His name.

***

He opens his eyes, flooded with molten gold of burned stars.

The smoke still curles around, but the daemon's eyes can no longer weep from it, nor can they shed tears that is not the sacred drops of blood.

The smoke reaches up, still steadily, and curls into the contours of the walls — as yet only outlined, but in the realm between reality and unreality they are almost ready to materialize. If the Word is spoken.

The daemonic Primarch's mouth turns into a smile, both eerie and familiar.

He folds his hands in front of him. He bows his head and opens his eyes.

And prays for the war.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song - https://en.lyrsense.com/ordo_rosarius_equilibrio/where_i_stand_on_the_holy_mountain_and_pray_4_the_


End file.
